


It's Always Hard

by Sunless_sea



Category: Cormoran Strike Series - Robert Galbraith
Genre: F/M, Hopelessly in love Strike, Jealous Robin, Mutual Pining, Pining
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-26
Updated: 2019-02-26
Packaged: 2019-11-05 22:09:33
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,305
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17927288
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sunless_sea/pseuds/Sunless_sea
Summary: A small set of imagines at various times of day. Robin and Strike together and separate, but never really apart. Oh, the pining.





	It's Always Hard

**Author's Note:**

> This is my first ever fic, so any feedback would be most welcome. Thanks to all the other writers, especially @LulaIsAKitten: I've read so much of your work and learnt a great deal along the way.

On Friday morning, Strike’s first waking thought was of Robin. Or perhaps it his last sleeping thought. He felt sure he’d dreamt of her, but when he woke the only proof he had was an ache in his chest and the echo of her shampoo. He breathed out slowly and turned over, adjusting himself. It’s always hard in the morning, he thought to himself, grinning at his joke. After a minute or two he heaved himself up and sat on the edge of his bed to reattach his leg. He began his morning routine, going through the same motions he performed whether he woke at dawn or after lunch: piss, shower, dress, cigarette, tea. Don’t think about Robin. But even as he was thinking about not thinking about her, he was counting down the hours until her arrival downstairs.

* 

It was five to five that afternoon. The working day had gone well, and by rights Strike knew he should have been feeling excited at the rare prospect of a weekend off. In reality, he felt deflated. The thought of two Robinless days could not be offset by the promise of some free time: her absence was far bleaker than the winter dark pressing against the windowpanes. While he was staring blankly at said panes, she called from her desk that she was off home.

He jumped, stood up, and walked to door of his office. She flashed him a smile, wished him a good weekend, and headed out. He stood there for a few seconds before throwing caution to the wind. Striding out of out of his office, he called her name and heard her footsteps falter on the stairs.  
“Yes?” she said brightly, walking back up and into view.  
“I’ll come with you,” said he said, gruffly. She raised her eyebrows and he improvised, “I’m meeting Shanker near the station. Almost forgot.”  
He turned away and busied himself with putting on his coat so he didn’t have to look her in the eye. When he turned to face her she smiled easily at him and they left together. 

It was cold on the street and they walked quickly amidst the interminable roadworks, Strike with his hands firmly in his pockets. The station was only a few minutes away but those few minutes (Strike found himself thinking) were worth it. Not for the first time he felt glad that Robin’s brilliant intellect stopped just short of mind reading. He wished he hadn’t said he was meeting Shanker, so he could have found some excuse to invite her along. It would be too weird now. Or was it weird already? Had she seen through him? He imagined Robin asking Shanker, in passing, how his drink with Strike had been, and Strike having to explain to his old friend why he had lied. He made a mental note to see Shanker this weekend anyway, just in case. When they arrived at the station they said their goodbyes, Strike’s complete with an inexplicable and embarrassing little wave. He remembered to walk in the opposite direction to Denmark Street, towards his fictional appointment.

* 

By the time Robin got home she was cold and tired. She let herself into the flat, changed into something comfy, and settled herself on the couch. She snuggled up and read the book she’d left on the coffee table until her growling stomach demanded she heat up some leftovers. She poured herself a glass of wine and ate her supper on her lap, plate on top of mohair blanket. Under the influence of the wine, and as it was a Friday night, Robin allowed her mind to wander to her interactions with Strike. She joked, internally, that she tested her skills of deduction and recall most keenly on these nights. No word or gesture of his seemed to escape her observation during the week, and she filed them all away for moments like this when she let her guard down.

Had he really forgotten about meeting Shanker? Surely she was flattering herself to imagine that he was making excuses to see her. Was she? It was unlike him to forget things. Whatever the cause, he had definitely been distracted lately. Her stomach contracted at the thought of what might be holding his attention outside of work. Could Charlotte have gotten back in touch? Could one of his other glamorous ex-girlfriends have resurfaced? Or worse, she thought glumly, who’s to say he couldn’t have found someone new? Suddenly her fantasies weren’t fun any more. She felt embarrassed for even considering that that he’d been trying to spend time with her. She put her plate of half-eaten food aside. Here she was, alone in her flat, fantasising about her boss while he was probably out for a drink with some sophisticated, laughing woman. Perhaps he’d said it was Shanker to spare her feelings.

* 

While Robin was torturing herself on the couch, Strike was not, in fact, having a drink with anyone. He was sitting at his desk finishing off a cheap curry. He had spent the evening going over some case files, and though he was tired, he felt far from sleep. Or perhaps it wasn’t far from sleep so much as reluctant to get into bed. (Alone, his treacherous mind added.) His years in the army had taught him that it did not do to lie awake, mentally turning over things as dangerous and pressing and his feelings for Robin. He pushed them aside, and tried to focus on the notes again. Even that was no good. Half of what he was reading had been typed and researched by Robin, and her wit was written all over them. He sighed and closed the file, resting his forehead on his hands.

* 

When Robin finally got into bed she curled up in the centre, rolling herself up in the duvet like a cocoon. She still found the emptiness of a double bed strange, though infinitely preferable to one with Matthew in it. She tried her best not to think of how much space Strike must take up, even in a bed this size, or how little she’d mind having to share. She piled the cushions up on one side, as a backrest, she told herself. When at last she drifted off it was not unconnected to her imagining that the comforting pressure against her back was really a certain barrel-like chest.

The owner of the chest in question was in bed himself, reflecting against his best efforts. He’d downed a good few beers in an effort to temper his imagination and have a normal Friday night (like a normal person, not a lovesick teenager). Unfortunately, he thought to himself, lazily, that plan had failed. If anything, the alcohol had freed his mind to wander into previously off-limits terrain. Something about the buzz of a few beers and the comfort of a warm bed was conducive to that half-awake state between waking and dreaming that he loved so much. 

Strike thought of Robin in her flat, reading or watching telly or (oh God) showering before bed. (It’s always hard in the evening too, it seemed.) He imagined how she would feel when she emerged: soft and clean and warm. How had Matthew ever gotten her to go out with him, let alone stay with him? What did a sod like that ever do to deserve the privilege of a sleepy Robin sliding into bed beside him. Strike scowled. He wondered if Matthew had ever bothered to rub her back, or kiss her cheeks, or plait her hair. Strike guessed Matthew had been the shag-or-ignore type. Just give me one night, Strike bargained with some unseen power, just one night to have her in my arms, and I’ll stop all this. Even as he thought it, he knew he lied.


End file.
